


Uprising

by charcoane



Series: Of Monsters and Men [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28213140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoane/pseuds/charcoane
Summary: If Tony was going to cut his rest short, it was going to be when the last line of defense was being swarmed and ravaged like an abandoned sugar cube by a colony of hungry ants. It was not going to be because Captain America’s heartfelt, woebegone howls were terrorizing the nation and had apparently prompted a state of emergency for all sixty-two counties of New York.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Of Monsters and Men [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066934
Comments: 11
Kudos: 114





	Uprising

**Author's Note:**

> I'm afraid this will make no sense at all unless you've read [Postmortem](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/26665588) first.

Tony stirs to Rhodey’s voice in his head, saying, “Compared to these idiots, Tony, you're downright _stable_."

He soars into Rhodey’s head for the first time in five years and it’s as though he’d dunked his face in the sun: white light pours into his eyes, sweeps away the cobwebs in his head, and six feet under in the colorless, noiseless ground, Tony’s face contorts, grimacing. The earth sympathizes, moves with him, rearranging itself around his face.

By the time Rhodey shoulders open the door to the conference room — refurnished, Tony realizes, and his grimace morphs into one of distaste — Tony’s eyes have adjusted. Then he sees, inevitable and all at once, a fucking car wreck that keeps getting worse the longer he looks: Natasha, her blonde hair turned red again, the tips tinged a pale yellow; Barton, flaunting a fucking _mohawk_ , and — as if that wasn’t bad enough — one of his shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulder joint, exposing the abomination that’s his shoddily tattooed sleeve. Wilson’s neither turned punk nor gone through a midlife crisis during Tony’s absence, thank fucking God for small mercies. Barnes’s cropped his hair short, and actually taken a shower. Vision’s fashion sense is still godawful, and Maximoff’s mellowed, matured, trading her punk meets hot topic look for more conventional, age-appropriate clothes. They’ve apparently added Wolverine to the roster too, and Tony's real curious to know whose bright fucking idea that was, because the guy’s _already_ gotten into Thor’s stash: he’s half-asleep and lounging in Steve’s seat, his dishevelled, straggly head propped up on his massive fist, one of Thor’s flasks tucked between his equally massive thighs. 

Rhodey, standing at the head of the table, looking them over like an overworked, long-suffering teacher does a classroom of rowdy, rebellious students, says, “We ready to start? Steve — you with us?”

And Tony frowns and looks, and then looks some more, because Steve, what Steve? Where _is_ Steve?

Then the bedraggled, dozing mound in what used to be Steve’s seat moves, crinkling and unwinding like the tightly wound spirals of a flower when they’re jostled by drops of water, and turning his head, peeking through that grown-out, unkempt veil of dull dark hair, isn’t Logan. Logan’s eyes aren’t blue, and this is the kind of blue that’s managed to warm Tony through on more than one occasion, with little more than a glance.

Alright, Tony concedes, feeling something inside himself give, struck cold and off-kilter. Maybe he’d better come back up after all — and he'd better do it fast. 

* * *

And then Tony hits the fucking snooze button and rolls back over, but instead of five more minutes, he dozes through a handful more months.

* * *

**@peterparker**  
me: *standing in front of captain america’s window at three in the morning, banging pots and pans together* i didn’t get no fucking sleep cause of y’all, y’all not gonna get no sleep cause of me!  
♺542♡1,8k

* * *

One day Tony is going to look back on this and laugh: all his adult life he’d prided himself on being a futurist, twisting himself into increasingly tightly wound and aching knots over an inevitable doomsday only he saw coming. Then — and only then — he’d come clawing his way out of the earth with his teeth bared and a hoarse, vindictive snarl lodged in the back of his throat, coiling one mud-stained hand around an extraterrestrial hindquarter and yanking them down towards him through the churned soil: savage and uninhibited and every bit as alien as the things scuttling their way through the widening cracks in the open sky.

If Tony was going to cut his rest short, it was going to be when the last line of defense was being swarmed and ravaged like an abandoned sugar cube by a colony of hungry ants. It was not going to be because Captain America’s heartfelt, woebegone howls were terrorizing the nation and had apparently prompted a state of emergency for all sixty-two counties of New York.

And _yet._

* * *

New York is riddled with holes, piles of earth. The former dampen and soften into muddied trenches, and the latter children gather up by the fistfuls, chucking them at their reluctant playmates, disgruntled parents, random passerbys. Immune systems are boosted, but all that mud and dirt isn’t doing New York’s air quality any favors: everywhere Tony’s eyes wander he sees people smothering themselves with their own scarves, coughing into the warm cup of their palms. Surgical masks have become just as indispensible as wallets and cellphones. 

Governor Cuomo, seemingly at a loss, is leaving Pepper progressively incomprehensible voicemails — who, before she bothers to do anything at all, has taken to cracking open her bottom desk drawer and pouring herself two fingers of warm cognac. She’ll tip them down her throat and then reach out booze-stained, perfectly manicured nails to clack away at yet another fruitless mail to Tony’s inactive e-mail address. The latest one — furtively scanned by Tony through Rhodey’s eyes — had read:

_Dear Tony, today marks day #1573 of your absence, and day #136 without uninterrupted sleep. I love and miss you almost as much as I want to throttle you. Yours, Pepper._

Tony had only scowled and burrowed deeper into the earth, petulant and sullen. If he could he’d cup his hands around his ears to muffle the noise, but all that commotion and disorder would filter in regardless: #UnearthStark is an undying trending hashtag on Twitter, and late night talk show hosts have made a running gag of appearing live on air with their shirts untucked and their hair a dishevelled bird’s nest, all half-lidded eyes and slurred speech and their haggard heads lazily propped up on a weak, unsteady fist.

It eventually culminates in Jon Stewart crawling out of retirement and up into Stephen Colbert’s haphazardly deserted chair, grey-haired and underdressed and jittery, spreading his hands wide and his mouth into an appeasing grin and publically pleading with Tony that while he understands that Tony wants to rest — and boy, does he _ever_ understand — it’s what all of New York wants as well. “Man, this sequel to Sleepless in Seattle _sucks_ ,” Stewart tacks on, wheezing a mildly desperate but genuinely exhausted laugh.

Deep inside the bowels of the earth, Tony writhes against an unfairly strong twinge of guilt.

* * *

Finding Tony has long become a group effort, and a few dangerously bored and stupid kids with amateur stake-out kits slung over their shoulders have actually come close — some of them trawling around in mismatched pairs, some of them all on their lonesome and more than just mildly inebriated — but Tony is still Tony and therefore not defenseless even at the worst of times.

It's been a simple matter of taking advantage of what he can do post-mortem, seizing hold of the occasional moron's coattails and railroading them into following their next, immediately adjacent impulse — most of which have so far been harmless, but there’d been one college student who was already so fucking high to begin with he'd stripped himself bare and nearly got hypothermia jumping into the nearest fountain. Unfortunately the jackass then shared a tweet commemorating the experience, and inevitably garnered feedback from people who'd received similar input at that particular location: @hannibai had hightailed it to the nearest fast food joint and all but unhinged their jaw trying to scarf down four cheeseburgers; it had been a miracle, @hannibai announces solemnly, that they’d had the presence of mind to pocket their EpiPen before leaving the house.

Steve, because he’s smarter than he looks and fooling absolutely fucking nobody pretending he doesn’t know how to work his phone, catches on remarkably fast.

* * *

Tony knows he’s been nosed out before Steve’s even dug his claws into the soil above Tony’s body — packed down like solid ice by now, sprouting weeds all year round and even sparse, fragile flowers in spring. He lurches into activity like a dumped car that’s been wasting away at a scrap heap for years and years: slow and rusty, run through with a frigid chill, his bones creaking. If he’d had the fortitude of mind he’d remember what he is and just heave himself up out of the earth, but as it is he’s all urgency and hot anger, card-wheeling his arms and raking his fingers through rock-hard concrete and struggling out into the open air with the existential clamour of a new-born infant.

Tony’s hair’s matted down with dirt, his clothes and skin coated and reeking. He’s a bogeyman straight out of hell, skeletal and inhuman, guttural noises clangoring in his throat, and Steve receives him with the sort of undone, overwhelmed, _absurd_ joy that Tony will randomly recall later, bowled over by a wholesome wash of sentimentality that almost crushes him flat.

It's a full-bodied, overflowing thing, Steve's happiness: it pours out of his throat, high-pitched and jubilant, and his body is writhing, all over the place. Tony is likewise on all fours and pushing himself forwards to gather Steve close, folding his arms around that huge mound of heaving, rough fur and tipping Steve — in his entirety, yelping deafeningly in Tony’s ear — over into the hard, stiff plane of his chest, against Tony’s unbeating heart.

He presses his face into the fur at Steve's throat, feels him go quiet and still all over. Steve is now strangely compliant and deferential despite the purposeful sweep of Tony's mouth, the rummaging sting of Tony's teeth. He sets them firm and unmistakable against Steve's skin, feels the heavy, encouraging slap of Steve’s tail against his thigh, and — tightening his arms around Steve, who can’t help but furtively lick at the hollow of Tony’s throat, at the lapels of his shirt — crudely drives his incisors home, feeling the cold leach out of his chest and hands and warmth blooming all the way up to his hairline. 

* * *

Steve’s dead weight by the time Tony eases his teeth out of his flesh and his hands out of his fur, letting Steve roll out of his lap and pour easy and gentle and soothed onto the ground, across pale and frost-tinged grass. His breath plumes; melted snow soaks into his shoes. There’s not an inch of Tony that’s dry or warm or even steady, and in that regard he’s not so different from the trees looming dark and naked all around: brittle and stiff and dormant, just waiting to thaw. 

Tony climbs onto his feet, then slowly straightens his knees. It’s a miracle to be upright — for the first time in years — even more of a miracle that he doesn’t ache, can rotate his neck and arms and not feel remotely sore. The cold wind is flogging Tony’s damp clothes, scalding his cheeks and hands, but then Tony goes back down to his knees and his bones don’t crack, his muscles don’t tear. He heaves Steve back into his arms — his tail still at it, whipping weakly at the back of Tony’s legs, fucking unbelievable — and makes for the open road.

When he finally reaches it — stiff, still not used to the simple act of walking — he steps neatly out into open traffic, hitching Steve closer with one arm and slamming the other hand down onto the hood of a driving car.

The tires screech; as does the guy at the wheel, deafening and instinctive, petrified down to his bones. Tony spares half a second to wonder whether he should flag down another car — because he’s not so sure this guy hasn’t pissed himself and he really wants to avoid smelling urine on the ride home — but then he’s already rounding the hood to where the guy’s attempting an aborted lunge towards the passenger side, frantically fumbling with first his belt and then his phone, smashing buttons.

Tony lowers himself to a crouch, watches as the guy rears back from the window screaming, “Holy shit, what the _fuck_ ,” and then he's tapping twice on the window, stretching his lips into an awkward smile.

The guy stares him down with the mute, motionless fear of someone who’s managed to sweat through his clothes in all of three seconds and in zero degree weather, priming himself for the sight of an unhinged jaw and a scarlet, long-tunneled throat, waiting to be swallowed whole.

“Hi,” Tony offers, croaking, and Mr. Baseball Cap’s eyes blow wide, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel going briefly slack. “Mind if I bum a ride?”

* * *

Mr. Baseball Cap — “Call me Gerald,” Gerald says — doesn’t mind at all once he takes in the cut of Tony’s beard, his jaw, and then stares hard at the large package of fur in Tony’s arms, finally putting it together. He wheezes, “Thank fucking _God_ ,” and unlocks the car, and halfway through the night and towards the Compound he sheepishly asks Tony for a selfie, clearly gunning for the most viral social media picture in — well, ever.

Tony glances down at the upholstery of the back seat, soaked through and stained with dirt and wolf hair, and then he heaves a silent, resigned sigh.

"No gang signs," he insists, because he's not a _complete_ pushover. 

* * *

Bruce reacts to Tony clambering down the stairs to his lab — an armful of furry, anemic Steve slung halfway over his shoulder — with more emotion than Tony’s ever seen in him: he shouts, loud and full-throated, reaches out to Tony with both arms and gawps at him with wide, elated eyes, completely undone.

“Tony,” he breathes, gasping it, touching Tony’s shoulder and patting down his arms. “What—are you—”

“What year is it?” Tony demands, pouring Steve onto the desk and reaching up to wipe at the corners of Bruce’s eyes, clumsy and out of practice, wanting to soothe.

“2023,” Bruce tells him, then plucks his glasses off his nose and picks up Tony's slack, wiping his tired eyes dry with the bottom end of his shirt. Tony's eyes widen and he whirls around, points a shaky, damning finger at Steve’s relaxed form.

“Seven years,” he yells, barely coherent. “That’s not even a _decent nap,_ Steve!”

Because Tony’s at the Compound and not even trying to keep his voice down, he runs straight into Rhodey’s chest on his way out, bones and muscles rattling. 

Rhodey is gasping, wheezing into Tony’s armpit — whether from tears or the collision, it’s hard to tell — and then he fists a hand in the back of Tony’s shirt, crushing them together. It takes a moment — Tony's hand lifts and hovers in the air, he’s motionless, staggered, there's too much input to be processed all at once — but finally he lowers his hand back down, cups his palm over the back of Rhodey’s skull.

He hears the beat of Rhodey’s heart thundering against his own chest, against his own throat. Tony’s other arm slips around Rhodey’s shoulders, his fingers biting into the top of Rhodey's forearm, hauling him close, and then he looks down and sees the sluice of blood tears dripping off his chin: red and warm and vivid, streaking all across the back of Rhodey’s cardigan.

* * *

Tony wipes himself down and launches his clothes into the fireplace before he settles cross-legged on his bed, overdressed and annoyingly clear-headed. Looking around now he could almost be led to think that no time’s passed at all: his scent’s still all over the place, wafting out of the opened doors of his closet, his clothes still in the arranged order he’d left them and neatly pressed, spotless.

But then he looks down at his unblemished hands and unnaturally glossy nails and sees the bed’s been stripped; when he'd washed himself down he reached out and groped air, all his skincare products cleared out of the shelves; there'd been no towels to dry his hands with, no comb with which to unknot his hair. Tony imagines Happy ransacking the place only to stop dead in his tracks in front of the closet, a sudden onslaught of sentimentality making him reconsider, hands like lead at his sides and thinking: just in case.

Tony’s sitting there for whole minutes mulling it all over, and then come three knocks on the door, descending bluntly one after the other in one per second intervals. Tony lurches out of his stupor and immediately knows it’s not been minutes but hours, Tony hunched over on the bed with his elbows on his knees and no residual ache in his spine or neck. He’s essentially turned to stone: motionless and solid and deep in thought, permanently fixed while his clothes have been gathering dust.

Steve quietly lets himself in without so much as a say-so from Tony, freshly clothed and clean-shaven, a ruddy gleam to his skin that Tony associates with a thorough scrub. He slides in behind Tony on the bed and leans his entire weight against Tony’s back, his hands grasping to hold Tony in place, his chin pushing forward to tuck proprietarily over Tony’s shoulder.

“Are we pleased with ourselves,” Tony asks him, deadpanning but with no heat in his voice or eyes, and leans back against the soft-clothed stretch of Steve’s body: welcoming and tender, rearranging himself so Tony can fit against him more easily.

“We can’t complain,” Steve tells him, low and close to Tony’s ear. His voice is a weakened rasp but all that flattening weight behind it has fallen away: he’s now feather-light and warm, burrowing close, one leg folded underneath his thigh and his arm slung tight around Tony’s waist — holding Tony to his heart, safe and crushingly near against his chest. 

Tony leans his head against Steve’s and thinks, amused and yielding at last, that it’s just as well. They can both rest easier this way, after all. 


End file.
